


Fit to be tied

by buckybleeds



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019, Locker Room, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Shibari, accidental crafting genius bucky barnes, bcz buckaroo can't say no to being there but he isn't being forced to do anything sexual really, enthusiastic TPE for the hydra hubbys tho, for those who are about to smut we salute you, post mission stress relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22043416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: Bored on a mission STRIKE Alpha decides to test the limits of the Winter Soldier's skills.Turns out he could totally be an IG influencer if he were into that kind of thing.Thankfully he can also help Jack and Brock with the kind of thing that they're into.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019





	Fit to be tied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buckys_barn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=buckys_barn).



> Happy New Year @buckys_barn, this was in response to your requests for Jack, Brock, and Bucky with Shibari and Overstimulation but no noncon.
> 
> Written for the Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019

It started with Mercer.

Actually it started with a blizzard and an op that got killed before it got off the ground but Mercer was the first one to get bored out of her skull enough to start treating the Winter Soldier like it was a twelve-year-old girl at a slumber party.

She sprawled on the couch in the tiny cabin where every member of STRIKE team Alpha was slowly preparing to skin each other alive with their unrelenting proximity. The Asset was leaning against the snow-blocked window, peering through the top two inches of glass. Its restlessness and hyper-vigilance were no small part of the creeping tension in the tiny building.

"Asset," Mercer said, pointing at ratty carpet in front of her, "sit."

The Soldier had shifted and rolled its shoulders and glanced toward Rumlow but when it didn't get any contrary orders it sat down in front of her knees, turning its back to her reluctantly.

"Don't you get tired of having all that hair in your face," she said, smoothing through its knotted hair with her delicate fingers. It didn't respond to her question and didn't flinch as she carefully picked apart tangles. The Soldier was always still but when Mercer had cleared the knots and scratched at its scalp it became eerily still, not breathing or moving beyond a startled widening of its eyes.

"Aww, look," Murphy cooed, "it likes when you pet it, Cyn."

"Of course it does," she sneered, "it's a good boy."

The Soldier closed its eyes and resumed breathing.

Mercer separated tiny sections of the Soldier's hair at its temple and began weaving an intricate braid, letting some pieces cascade down and winding the rest around its skull like a crown. When she reached the back of its head she poked it in the shoulder.

"Hold this."

It did as it was told and held the braid in place while she started on the other side. When the two sides met in the middle she took the first braid back from the soldier and worked the two sections together into a four-strand pattern that terminated in a point at the nape of its neck.

"Do you have small zip-ties in your field kit, Asset?"

It nodded gingerly, careful not to tug its hair out of her hands.

"Give me one."

It dug in a pocket and passed over a tiny black cable tie, which she used to finish her work, neatly trimming the tail of the tie with her beloved, prissy little Gerber Kettlebell.

"Pretty," she said.

She was right. She took out her cellphone, with zero service and no data like all of the rest of the stir-crazy team, and took a couple pictures of her work. She considered the images then leaned down over the soldier, holding her phone where it could see the screen.

"Asset. Now do the same thing to me."

* * *

Less than two minutes later Mercer was using the front-facing camera on her phone and snapping selfies of the pretty braids framing her face and everyone else on the team was staring at the Soldier in wide-eyed wonder. Murphy acted fastest.

He tore a sheet out of his operations manual and cut the page into a square, then showed the soldier the lockscreen of his phone - an origami frog.

"Soldier, make this item."

It looked at Rumlow again and saw the commander watching but not countering any orders. It reached for the paper.

* * *

The origami frogs were really cute but everyone agreed that Wesfahl was barred from giving the soldier any orders for the remainder of the operation after his stunt with the whittled whistle.

* * *

Jack had watched the Asset Arts And Crafts Hour with a combination of mild amusement and fierce calculation. He didn't want an origami frog, he didn't want his hair braided, he didn't want a gum wrapper sculpted into a wineglass. He wanted to be out of these woods and back in D.C.

He didn't want anything from the Soldier here with his team in this cramped cabin.

That didn't mean he didn't want anything from the Soldier.

The Triskelion was quiet by the time the team made it back. The snow had finally cleared enough to bring a Quinjet in for evac and Rollins mostly slept through the return trip. But the time he hadn't spent sleeping he spent looking for just the right picture.

* * *

The team filtered out of the locker room quickly while Brock talked the Asset through the steps of showering. He felt the stress of the blown mission dropping away as the Soldier obediently picked the braids out of its hair and ran soap over itself. Somewhere behind him Jack was puttering around and the soft sounds of his footsteps made a comforting, familiar pattern of white noise.

It was late at night, the Soldier was compliant, Brock had eaten on the jet, and soon he'd be alone with his favorite person ready to tumble into bed and sleep for forty hours, or at least sit in a room where there weren't three concurrent arguments happening.

"Brock," Jack growled, startling Rumlow. His voice low and dark and closer than expected; Brock began to turn away from the Soldier but Jack's hands settled on his biceps and held him in place. A stubbled chin rasped behind his ear and sharp teeth nipped at the lobe. "You wanna play a game, baby?"

He did want to play a game. Jack came up with excellent games. But -

"It's been a long week, Jackie. I think I'm too tired."

The large, warm hands slid over his chest and slipped down to his hips to tug his tight shirt up.

"Don't worry baby, I know you're tired." Jack ground into him from behind as his hands moved in front of Brock to ease open the buckle of his tactical belt. A game was beginning to sound better and better. "This is an easy game. All you have to do is take what I give you."

Well.

If he hadn't already been onboard that would have gotten him there.

Brock groaned and leaned against Jack's broad chest, letting the larger man shuck off his clothes and dig strong fingers into his hips. Jack bit at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, gnawing and sucking a bruise into the skin until Brock was half out of his head with it.

"Soldier," Jack said, command creeping into his voice and paving over the softness of the words he'd directed at Brock, "wash the commander like you washed yourself."

* * *

Brock stiffened in Jack's arms and Jack smiled, sure that Brock's face looked just about as panicked and uncertain as the Asset's.

"Jackie," Brock whispered, tensing his legs like he was thinking of stepping away from Jack's embrace. As if he didn't know better.

"You gonna be good for me, sweetheart? You gonna be a good boy like our Soldier?" Brock whimpered. "You gonna take what I have for you?"

The commander was silent so Jack spoke again.

"Asset, clean him up."

The Asset had huddled nude in the corner of the showers as Jack stripped Brock and manhandled him into a pliant mess. The Asset's eyes had been blank and unfocused with no attention on it but they brightened with exhilarating sharpness at the new orders. 

It didn't move until Brock nodded minutely, and then it was gentle. It pulled its handler under the showerhead carefully wet him down before lathering up a bar of soap and slowly petting it over Brock's twitching form. It was domestic and soft and sweet and Brock looked like he was about to shit a cinderblock, panic creasing his features every few seconds as he allowed the Soldier to manipulate him.

It was driving Jack crazy. It was so clear that Brock wanted to bolt, wanted to scream and flinch and defend himself. And he wasn't doing any of that. He was being good because his Jackie asked him to.

Jack watched as Brock got into the moment, reluctantly giving over to the control and getting on it. He stripped off his own shirt and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"Asset, he's clean. Come here." Jack gestured to the bench between two rows of lockers and Brock started to follow.

"Not you," Jack growled, glaring at Brock. "You're going to stay there, you're going to press your tits against the wall, and you're going to clean yourself _properly_."

Watching Brock's jaw drop as he processed that might have been funny if it wasn't so gratifying.

His normal hard-assed sneer was nowhere to be found. Brock's mouth fell open and color rose in his face. He turned around and pressed his chest to the wall, arching his back so the rippling waves of muscle coalesced into a knot of tension between his shoulders.

Jack slapped his ass and grinned when Brock reached back between his own cheeks. Jack could watch that more later. For now he had to dry off the Asset and see if it was as good at macrame as it was at origami.

* * *

Here's the thing: 

The thing is that Brock Rumlow can drop nearly any motherfucker on the planet in about thirty seconds flat. 

Obviously super soldiers don't count, duh, they're not human and Brock can't take a tiger in a fistfight either, but most non-enhanced people, you put 'em in the ring with Brock Rumlow and Brock Rumlow wins without breaking a sweat.

Jack Rollins is not most people. 

You put Brock and Jack in a ring together and Brock is going home on a stretcher. Jack is big and Jack is strong but mostly Jack is _mean_ and that gets Brock going like nothing else. 

So for all that Brock is a STRIKE commander and a tough motherfucker and not somebody you want to run into at night in a dark alley, for all of that, he's also kind of a slut for doing whatever Jack wants. 

And if Jack wants him to put his tits on the tile and clean out his asshole then Brock is going to do it and he's going to do it with a smile on his face and his dick hard enough to pound nails. 

* * *

The Soldier has repeatedly proven to be capable of mentally calculating windage and compensating for the corialis effect to make successful kill shots at a range of one point five miles. 

It has demonstrated the ability to freeclimb sheer rock faces, manufacture improvised explosive devices, and it speaks twelve languages. 

It does not understand why these assholes are so gung ho about having it fold some paper toys or tie some knots but the emotional states of its handers are not its fucking problem. 

It just works here. But of course it can tie some fucking knots. 

There's a vague space inside of it where there used to be something human that's kind of insulted by the implication that these assholes are creative enough to find a task that would be difficult for the Soldier to complete. 

* * *

The quality of the sound changed past the rush of the water. 

"Eager much, sweetheart?"

Once he was as clean as he was going to get Brock had taken some initiative. He was scissoring himself open on two fingers and quickly, somewhat painfully, pushed a third into himself now that he knew Jack was watching. 

"Such a slut for it," Jack said, his voice low and hot. "Quit playing with yourself and turn off the water."

Brock did as he was told and Jack stepped in close behind him to briskly rub him down with a towel. 

"I should've known you wouldn't be able to keep your hands to yourself," he tugged Brock out of the shower and shoved him to where the Soldier was waiting. 

It had been dressed in its tactical pants ands a black tank, looking somehow both soft and dangerous with its hair tied back in a simple ponytail and its feet bare on the concrete floor. 

It was straddling one end of the low bench between two rows of lockers. Several hanks of rope were laid out by is feet and it was holding more rope taut across its lap. 

The other end of the bench had a towel folded neatly on top of it and another folded on the floor underneath it. 

Thoughtful. Brock's knees weren't what they used to be. 

"You know where you go, baby," Jack said, and Brock nodded, lowering himself to kneel on the towel and bend over the padded end of the bench. 

"Good. Now, Soldier, just like I showed you."

* * *

The knots are easy. Just four pieces of rope in a simple pattern. 

Tying knots on the Commander is surprisingly difficult. 

First of all every bit of its programming is screaming that this behavior is not part of the proper order of things and will bring pain. That concern is met easily enough by the fact that the Soldier has been given a command by a handler and must complete the task whether or not it fears pain. 

The second part of the problem is that the Commander is the wrong size. The Soldier's hands want to tie knots on a frame that is either much bigger or much, much smaller. It is worried that the smooth nylon rope is too soft, that if the Commander isn't reminded not to struggle against strict and scratchy jute he'll bruise his slim wrists until they swell enough that he won't be able to pick up a pencil for a week. Again. Idiot. 

As the Soldier tucks the end of the final rope it considers its thoughts for the last couple of minutes and realizes there is something very, very wrong happening inside its head. 

"Go sit on the bench in the next row," the secondary handler says. 

It stands immediately. 

It has been required to do many unpleasant things over the years. It's glad that watching this shitshow won't be one of them. 

* * *

Brock wiggled his hips and pulled at his wrists. 

The Soldier had tied a simple harness around his shoulders and pullied it to single-column ties around his thighs, spreading him wide around the bench. His waist was tied to the plank, wrapped up he was wearing a corset with cinching along his spine. His arms were stretched out in front of him with ties at his wrists and elbows keeping them in place. 

He felt every inch as trapped and vulnerable as he was sure Jack wanted him to be. 

* * *

Brock looked good tied down and strung out and just beginning to tremble with anticipation. 

He looked pretty damn good. 

But he'd look better crying. 

"Couldn't wait for me in the showers, could you, sweetheart?"

Jack trailed his fingers lightly over Brock's pert rear. When he didn't answer Jack clamped down hard, savagely pinching the soft skin where his ass met his thigh. 

"Fuck, fuck, okay, no, I couldn't," the trembling was becoming more pronounced shaking. 

"Wanted me, didn't you?"

Brock's head fell forward, muffling his voice against his bound arms. 

"Yes."

"You wanted me to fuck this greedy little hole," Jack's finger was tracing around Brock's asshole, a feather-light teasing touch. 

"Wanted me to make you come until you were screaming, didn't you, baby?"

"Oh _shit_."

* * *

Nobody asks the Asset's opinion because the asset is a thing, not people. 

That didn't mean the Asset doesn't have opinions, just that it isn't often called on to share them. 

The Asset is currently of the opinion that, all things being equal, it would rather be in cryo than listen to another embarrassing word of the drivel its handlers consider to be the sensual and flirtatious poetry exchanged between lovers. 

* * *

Brock wasn't sure exactly how it was possible to be a mean sonofabitch when you had your tongue halfway up someone's asshole but regardless of _how_ it happened Jack sure pulled it off. 

"Please," Brock said again, halfway out of his mind at the contrast between the light touch of fingers ghosting over his prick and the hot, wet thrust of Jack's mouth on his hole, "please, please, Jacky, god, fuck please, please -"

Jack huffed out a laugh and pressed a finger in alongside his tongue, dragging it down cruelly to tug the tight muscle open as he simultaneously rubbed against Brock's perineum with the hard knuckles of a clenched fist. 

" _Please_ , I need it, goddamnit you fucking tease," Brock tried to hitch his hips forward, seeking friction from Jack's hand or the bench he was tied to or _anything_ that would let him come. 

The Soldier was, unfortunately, really good at its job. 

Brock wasn't going anywhere. 

Jack jabbed hard at his prostate with a spit-slick finger and Rumlow's whining climbed an octave, so Jack did it again, harder. Mean. 

Brock felt like he was being squeezed to pieces between the questing finger and the wet mouth on his ass and the terrible rigidity of the fist grinding behind his balls. 

"Please, please, please," Brock couldn't think beyond begging, couldn't remember his name or why he couldn't writhe back harder into that lovely mouth, all he knew was want. 

"Jacky, baby, _please_ ," he whimpered.

Jack gave him what he'd asked for, drooling and licking into Brock's sloppy hole with obscene enthusiasm while he pummeled Brock's prostate between his rough, hard hands. 

He pushed a second, then a third finger into Brock's grasping hole, but it was the delicate scrape of teeth against the stretched skin that pushed him over the edge. 

Brock's dick throbbed and jerked and came in thick spurts while Jack gradually slowed the motions of his hands and mouth. 

* * *

Jack gave Brock to the count of sixty to catch his breath before the sticky, slick fingers still spreading him open started rubbing up against his prostate again.

"Nhnng," Brock said, intelligently.

Jack didn't bother responding except to make his free hand into a rough sheath around Brock's limp, wet prick as it started to twitch.

"Nhgg - Jacky," the Commander whimpered, hips twitching against the bench, "Jacky too soon."

"Oh, now it's too soon," Jack rumbled. "Just a minute ago it was 'Jacky please,' and 'Jacky baby I need it,' and 'Jacky play with my greedy little hole because I'm such a stupid bitch I can't take care of myself,' but now it's 'Jacky too soon.' I see how it is."

He was grinning broadly as Brock's face started to flush as red as his irritated little cock. It wasn't ready to be hard again yet but he wasn't going to let that stop him. If Brock was too much of a pussy to get hard on his own Jack could fucking make him.

He worked his hands harder and softer, licking his palm to slick up the skin against Brock's spent prick and drilling with three pointed fingers inside his ass; it was like carpentry, smoothing off the harsh edges and edging the joints to bring something together. Jack had always been fond of woodworking, after all.

As little as he may have wanted to, Brock was getting hard again in Jack's hands. He didn't make a pretty process of it, squealing and grunting and doing his best to squirm and wiggle away, but after a few minutes he was red and raw and standing upright like a proud soldier again.

Jack cooed praise into his ear then pulled a short, double hank of rough jute rope out of his pocket and cinched it into a painfully tight loop around the base of Rumlow's angry erection. Brock squeaked and Jack made short work of tying off the trailing ends behind his balls for good measure.

"There you go sweetheart," Jack crooned, "now you don't have to worry about anything else happening too soon, do you?"

* * *

Brock squawked like an indignant goose, hissing and honking as Jack's fingers pulled out of him and tugged at his bound balls.

It hurt. It burned. It felt amazing.

"You fucking _dick_ ," Brock moaned. He couldn't get enough sensation. He was feeling too much. He felt overfull and terribly empty. He was drooling from his mouth and his cock and he could feel lube snaking down his thighs as Jack pumped more into him and he wanted everything and nothing and he wanted it now.

"Shut the fuck up," Jack said, slapping the hefty weight of his cock between Brock's spread cheeks before he reached down to line himself up with the wet hole in front of him. "You know you love me."

* * *

The Soldier didn't know much these days, but it did know that if it had to spend much more time listening to these drastically uncreative assholes attempt to trade shitty witticisms over their moribund love life it was going to die of secondhand embarrassment.

* * *

Brock was always pretty tight but he got tighter when you tugged on a noose around his balls, slapped his worn-out, roughed-up cock, and called him 'Sally.'

These were facts that Jack didn't spend much time examining. They just sat in the back of his head gathering dust until the special days that he could take them out and examine them in the bright light of day.

"Did that hurt, princess?" he said, furrowing his brow in transparently fake concern while he thrust in harder and tugged at the little harness around Brock's balls again. "Do you need me to be more gentle with you sweet pea?"

Brock had lost the ability to make coherent mouth-noises some time ago and wasn't even squalling or squeaking or squawking or squealing anymore. Now he was whimper-huffing and drooling as Jack forced high, pained little noises out of his throat with ever thrust. The improvised gag of spare rope probably had something to do with that.

"No? You want me to go faster sweetness? Pinch your little prick some more?" Jack did both, riding harder into Brock's sloppy, open ass and picking hard at little slivers of his foreskin with a sharp grip. Brock's eyes rolled back in his head and his face turned a darker shade of red that was verging on purple.

"You wanna come, sweet thing?" Brock hiccuped and gasped and yelled all at once in a weird blart of noise that sounded like a yorkie bringing up a hairball.

Jack grinned indulgently and tugged at one end of the harness around Brock's junk.

He couldn't even begin to describe _that_ sound.

* * *

God, it was like someone was pulling a shoelace made of sandpaper out of his dick with a pair of pliers. Then irrigating it with shitty Polish vodka. And cayenne.

He was pretty sure his dick wanted to fall off. He was pretty sure HE wanted his dick to fall off.

It felt like he came for a full minute even though it was probably two twitches and a thimblefull of jizz, but he rested with his forehead against the bench and panted after, feeling halfway between like he'd had his prick expertly sucked for an hour and like he'd been kicked in the balls by a clydesdale.

He felt soft lips land between his shoulderblades and felt Jack shifting inside him.

"My turn, buttercup," Jack whispered.

Brock wasn't sure where he found the energy to scream.

* * *

It was hard to hold off on his own orgasm when Brock's tortured body clamped down while he came.

But it was worth it.

Jack slapped his big hands over Brock's bony hips and started pounding into him the second he stopped squeezing and the panicked spasms of his ass were a thousand times better than the rhythmic clenching when he came. He was fighting to get Jack out, pushing back against too much feeling then letting go as his body flailed and tried to kick and breath and shit and scream all at once.

Jack hitched his hips and changed his angle slightly until he was sure he was hitting Brock's prostate on every thrust, ruthlessly riding over it again and again as Brock's whole torso tightened and turned to stone from the overstimulation.

Once -

Twice -

Three more thrusts and Brock wasn't even _breathing_ , just vibrating with feeling when Jack felt himself tip over and let go, free-falling while he flooded Brock's over-used ass.

* * *

It took him a little while to come back online.

He was sore in a lot of places, hot and raw. His cheek was resting on a soft, cool surface. There was a warm hand, scratchy with calluses petting down his spine.

"Love you so much, Princess," Jack whispered.

"Love you too," Brock said. He wasn't sure that Jack had heard, but he knew that Brock would understand.

* * *

Eight feet away, on the other side of a row of lockers, the Asset considered its pockets.

They'd been emptied of all ammunition and per diem funds from the mission. It wasn't allowed food so it shouldn't have the gum wrapper that was in its hand. Cable ties were ubiquitous, of no use.

On the flight back Agent Mercer had taken a sparkly clip out of her locker on the Quinjet and threaded it into the Asset's braid.

Perhaps it could use the clip to bribe the technicians into helping to ensure that it never, ever remembered this awful gaping cringe it felt within itself listening to the world's worst pillowtalk dribbling like shit out of the world's biggest assholes.

It could only hope the sparkly clip would be enough.


End file.
